


Spinoff

by trinityofone



Series: Twist [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fallen Castiel, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-02
Updated: 2010-02-02
Packaged: 2017-12-29 01:04:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/999022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trinityofone/pseuds/trinityofone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“A <i>television</i> series?” Dean says again. “I don’t know, man. Being a character in a bunch of books almost nobody’s read is weird enough. But a TV show? With some actor playing me? Some Hollywood type pretending to be Sam and Bobby and <i>you</i>?”</p>
<p>Castiel shrugs. “It is my understanding that most projects never make it to the screen. They languish, I believe, in what is known as ‘Development Hell.’”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spinoff

“Do you think he’ll really do it?”

Dean’s face is creased in a frown, but it’s partially concentration: his brow furrowed as he gently dabs alcohol across Castiel’s cut palms. Castiel flinches a little, but Dean’s warm hands hold him steady and safe. Dean’s tending to him carefully, having expressed hope that maybe he won’t scar. Castiel knows he will, but he doesn’t mind.

“He seemed pretty determined,” Castiel says. Zachariah’s former vessel’s first action upon regaining control of his body had been to make a beeline for a Bluetooth headset and start making calls. When Castiel, who had expected to have to spend longer calming and reassuring the man, had finally left, the guy had still been on the phone. Apparently his people were going to be setting up a meeting with somebody else’s people. Or something.

When Castiel made it back to Dean’s motel room ninety minutes later—L.A. traffic was Hellish in a very nearly literal sense of the word—Chuck had already called excitedly to announce that his books were being optioned for a television series.

“A _television_ series?” Dean says again. “I don’t know, man. Being a character in a bunch of books almost nobody’s read is weird enough. But a TV show? With some actor playing me? Some Hollywood type pretending to be Sam and Bobby and _you_?”

Castiel shrugs. He feels too good, too deeply happy to be worried about something as trivial as this. “It is my understanding that most projects never make it to the screen. They languish, I believe, in what is known as ‘Development Hell.’”

Dean lets out a snort. “Fine, let it stay there.” He finishes bandaging Castiel’s other hand and checks them both to make sure they’re clean and secure. His fingers linger on the backs of Castiel’s hands, tracing over the ridges of his knuckles. “You okay, Cas?” he asks, lowly.

“Dean.” He waits until Dean glances up, until he is truly looking at him. “I am so much more than okay, Dean.”

It takes a moment, but Castiel knows that his smile—now that he knows how to make it, now that he can feel the pleasant tug of pleasure pulling at his cheeks—is infectious, and pretty soon Dean’s caught it, pretty soon Dean has it all over him.

“You’re amazing,” he murmurs.

“Exactly,” says Castiel, sweeping the medical supplies aside and crawling up the bed to Dean, who spreads out eagerly beneath him. “That’s what I was trying to tell you.”

“Modest, too.” Dean chuckles and twists his fingers into Castiel’s hair. The brush of his fingertips against Castiel’s scalp, the scrape of his blunt nails…so much sensation. Castiel’s still not quite used to it, how the physical feeling wraps itself around the emotional one, creating a combination that’s close to overwhelming sometimes. Occasionally, it’s all he can do not to simply stretch out, sprawl like a cat in the sun, and beg Dean to touch him. He’s still not past the stage of every nerve in his body feeling like a live wire. He’s not sure he ever will be.

But to never have known this… To have lived on forever and never have known this… It’s not a question of what Dean still asks him sometimes, too often: _Do you regret it? Are you sorry?_ Because the fact is he’s so fucking grateful he could start belting out hosannas of the type angels don’t really sing.

Instead he nips at Dean’s full bottom lip, sucks it into his mouth. His mouth, Dean’s mouth: he can be possessive; he is in possession—all of it his, tangible and real. He grabs at Dean with his injured hands and Dean pulls away to caution, “Careful!”—always looking out for him, looking out for everybody. But Castiel doesn’t care if it hurts. This can be the good kind of hurt. He’s learning to tell the difference, now.

Nevertheless, his fingers are a little awkward on his buttons. Fortunately, Dean seems willing and eager to come to his aid, tugging open Castiel’s shirt, helping him shimmy out of his jeans. Castiel is unashamed of his nakedness, the awkward imperfections of his human body. In fact, one could almost accuse him of the sin of pride for the delight he takes in the shape of himself—the arcing shape of his bandaged fingers, the bony juts of each of his knees, the lilting curve of his cock. But it is more awe than pride. Pride he saves for Dean.

Dean, who is panting and grinning against him, tugging his grey cotton shirt up over his head, pressing his broad, bare chest against Castiel’s. Castiel forgets sometimes that he is smaller than Dean now—Dean whose entire being he once held in the palm of his hand—but it doesn’t matter when his arms are still long enough to wrap around Dean’s shoulders, the two of them kneeling naked on the bed, in no hurry, no rush to move things forward to where they will inevitably go, content with the exploration of mouths and hands—with making out, as Dean would say, like teenagers, like two people for whom the world is still young and the future bright.

Lucifer has risen and the apocalypse is imminent, but Castiel still feels that brightness. It is in the warmth of Dean’s skin and the color of his eyes; it is in the warm honey color of L.A. at sunset, the light filtering through the smog and the palm tree leaves, bouncing off billboards. It is in the woman who stopped talking on her cellphone long enough to wave him forward when he tried to change lanes and in the girl sharing french fries with her sister in the parking lot of the fast food restaurant that sits incongruously in front of their motel.

It is in this moment: Castiel coaxing Dean down onto the mattress, nosing his way down Dean’s chest. What a wonder just to hear him breathe, hear his heart beat. To taste the salt of his skin, pooling sweetly at the center of his belly. Dean obligingly lifts his hips and he slithers and kicks his way out of his jeans, alternately graceful and endearingly awkward. Castiel nips at his hipbone, at the top of his thigh. Dean’s playful swat turns into a caress, fingers skimming through Castiel’s hair and down the curve of his cheek. “You better not be thinking of trying to give me a handjob.”

Castiel chuckles. “Your deductive skills could use some work.” He nips and sucks again, marking the skin and the tightly corded muscle. “Please observe the position of my mouth.”

“You’re a couple of inches off, Sherlock.” To illustrate the point, Dean reaches down and fists his own cock. He shifts a little, offering it to Castiel. And like the many things Dean has fed to him, Castiel accepts it gladly.

It’s a little awkward, on his elbows, but more than worth it to hear the sounds Dean starts to make, to feel the weight of him against his palate, lips stretching, bumping up against Dean’s closed fist. He could so easily make Dean come undone, make him shatter, lose control— And Dean knows it, he wants it: to lose himself in Castiel. When he comes apart, Castiel will be the only thing to hold him together.

Castiel wants to feel it; he needs, suddenly, to get closer, to grip Dean more tightly than he can perched here on his elbows, his bandaged hands clenching uselessly against the covers as he pulls off of Dean’s prick, lips wet and rosy. “I need you to help me,” he says, meeting Dean’s eyes as they flutter open, pupils black and blown. And that look is all it takes: they know each other almost too well, sometimes—Dean scrambling for the lube and rolling back in time for Castiel to settle himself above him, pinning Dean’s chest on either side with his knees and lifting his ass in the air to accept Dean’s slick fingers with a breathless, contented sigh.

“Do you think,” Castiel pants, impaling himself greedily on Dean’s scissoring fingers, “they’ll show this on the TV series?”

Dean laughs and tightens his steadying grip on Castiel’s hip. “Maybe if they sell it to HBO. Or—” His breath hitches as they briefly separate and Castiel skims down against the head of his cock. “—To Skinemax.”

“Would you like that?” Castiel asks as Dean holds him open and fumblingly guides himself in. The breach feels incredible, like a need long unfulfilled suddenly answered, and Castiel’s words fade to a contented hum as lowers himself down, his head and shoulders rocking back. “Mmm, would you like that, late at night on the road, to turn on the TV and see us there, to know people all over the country were watching...”

“Cas.” The word comes out slurred, almost entirely an ‘s.’ “I have my cock up your ass, I’m gonna like almost anything you suggest.”

“Hmm.” Castiel lifts himself up, slowly, Dean’s cock moving almost languorously inside him. Then when he’s almost empty, he slams back down, each new penetration rippling through him like a shock. He finds Dean’s gaze and holds it through the rise and fall. 

“Vos est mihi,” he says. “Omni nocte vos utar, vos habebo, omni nocte vos futuam—vos tenebo, vos custodiam...”

“Jesus.” Dean sounds wrecked, clutching at Castiel’s thighs. “Yes, yes, whatever you just said...”

Castiel snaps his hips, Dean pulsing inside of him so perfectly, his own cock bumping wetly against his tensed stomach. “And I’m yours,” he promises, as Dean takes him in hand: just a flick of the thumb and he’s done. Shuddering and clenching around Dean, so raw and perfect, the heat held between them like a small sun.

Dean tumbles him over; he feels his back hit the sheets with a soft thump. Dean’s holding him by the wrists, his arms strung like a bow above his head as Dean drives in and finishes in a desperate whip-crack of his hips. Castiel stares through hooded eyes at the taut tendons in his neck, his lips quavering at the moment of completion. When he rolls to the side and settles with his head on Castiel’s breastbone, Castiel can’t help tilting Dean’s chin up, taking that trembling lip between his own. Their kisses soften; they are languid and lazy, warm in the soft light of the evening.

A thought strikes Castiel—random, ridiculous. But he doesn’t have to justify such things any longer; he can say what he likes, when he likes. And so he says, “Maybe PBS will buy it.”

Dean looks momentarily confused.

“Educational programming,” Castiel explains, and he feels Dean’s bemused snort ripple through his own chest.

When he shifts a moment later, it’s to run an absent finger down Castiel’s side, bumping over the ridges of his ribs, making Castiel shiver pleasantly. “They’ll never get this right,” he mutters into the skin above Castiel’s happily thudding heart.

Castiel stretches out, loose and sated, his bandaged palm soft on the top of Dean’s head.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says.


End file.
